Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  A few days later a telegraph from his editor informed him that, while the dispatches thus far had been received with reasonable interest, they had hardly blazed a trail of pioneering reportage. Daily News readers were well acquainted with accounts of squalor. Hill wanted to know where the hell was his Boycott story?

  Banishing from his mind as best he could the appalling sights he’d witnessed, he refocused his attention on the subject of Boycott and began to make inquiries of the peasantry and townspeople.

  But even in Westport, at over thirty miles’ remove from the man’s estate, Becker quickly met a wall of silence. Not a soul knew a thing about him, or so they claimed. The mention of Boycott’s name in any store or public house drew every eye upon him and terminated all conversation. His inquiries greatly exercised the curiosity of a few as to his identity and precise business. When one man offered to take him quietly down a lane and impart some information, Becker was immediately given pause, fearful they might murder him and dump his body in a bog. But his journalistic curiosity won the battle over his fear and he had taken up the local’s offer. Boycott, he was informed, had been required to attend a hearing of the Bessborough Commission in Galway, which was an attempt by Gladstone to get a true picture of the conditions of Ireland’s tenantry. Becker’s informant told him that the land agent was planning to return tomorrow via the steamboat up Lough Corrib to Cong, and then by car from there. How the man possessed such an intimate knowledge of Boycott’s travel arrangements was unclear (he suspected loose lips within the RIC), but he sounded genuine and Becker rewarded him with a shilling. The man departed with a warning that he might be careful not to be mistaken for Boycott, who was by now despised the length and breadth of Mayo.

  The following morning Becker packed his bags, his double-barrelled carbine and his notebook, and set off in search of the story of his career.

  Fr O’Malley recited the funeral rite as the coffin touched the bottom of the grave with a crunching sound that was brutal in its finality. He had performed the service countless times, but few occasions had the personal resonance as that of Teresa McGurk, wife of Martin, who had succumbed to what the doctor believed was blood poisoning, a condition that found its beginning with the loss of her child.

  Martin McGurk, already embittered, now appeared to have receded into a world of his own, a world, the priest feared, haunted by the vile spectres of blood and vengeance. A comforting hand on McGurk’s shoulder provoked no reaction. The man simply stared into the dark rectangular hole in the ground, the final resting place of all his love and dreams.

  As Fr O’Malley walked away to a chorus of wailing, he was joined by Owen, Síomha and Owen’s brother, Thomas, whom he had never met properly. They were introduced at a suitable distance from the mourners.

  ‘I can’t help but feel responsible in some way,’ the priest said.

  ‘From what I know, Father, the only people responsible for this are those bastards, the RIC,’ Thomas opined.

  ‘Thomas. Now’s not the time,’ Owen muttered.

  ‘Sorry, Father, I just say things as I see them.’

  ‘Sadly, Thomas, every pair of eyes sees things differently.’

  ‘Not every pair. The English all see us as vermin.’

  Fr O’Malley eyed him with a troubled curiosity, but didn’t respond.

  That evening they reconvened in Owen’s cottage and were joined by Redpath, who had brought a collection of newspapers, including The Times. The nationalist press, such as The Freeman’s Journal and The Connaught Telegraph, did report positively on the boycott but in general gave more weight to refuting suggestions that Parnell and Davitt had encouraged recent outrages and murders. But when Redpath read aloud Boycott’s letter to The Times and then the editorial, several upraised voices battled to profess their anger.

  ‘We never threatened his workers,’ Owen protested. ‘We talked to them.’

  Fr O’Malley sighed. ‘I suppose one could argue even that was a form of intimidation. I know that I felt I had intimidated the servants.’

  ‘You’re not defending Boycott, surely?’ Síomha asked.

  ‘Of course not. No threats of violence were made as Boycott implies. No one threatened his blacksmith with murder. Not that I know of, anyway. And he says the shopkeepers were warned off as well. Half the shopkeepers were in the group who invaded the estate. No, it’s full of half-truths and exaggeration. But from another point of view it could be interpreted as intimidation.’

  ‘And that’s the view the English will take,’ Thomas remarked reflectively.

  Fr O’Malley nodded. ‘What really bothers me is this stuff about his crops being stolen and destroyed, cattle driven out on to roads and so on. Sure, it’s impossible. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t get near his fields for all the constables roaming the place. He’s portraying us as a band of violent thugs and ruffians.’

  ‘Father, I think you’ve more te worry about than that,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Why?’ Owen asked.

  He shrugged. ‘You’ve had a peaceful protest. How do they respond? They call for the army to be sent in. I’ve seen this sort of thing before when we tried to form unions in Pennsylvania. They answered us with guns. I’m guessing the English will do the same. It’s their nature. The hard fact is that, sooner or later, Ireland’s going to have to answer like with like.’

  The room fell to silence, Thomas’s viewpoint settling upon them like a grey cloud.

  ‘Thomas,’ the priest mused, ‘even if, God forbid, we choose that path, they will always outgun us. And besides, it’s not a Christian way of–’

  ‘I’m not a very religious man, Father. But that aside, you’re forgetting that they also say they’re Christian. And, in my experience, God always sides with those with more guns.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

  Owen was troubled by his brother’s sudden interest in the situation and his apparent championing of revolution. Having said that, Thomas was just expressing a view that was widely held across Ireland.

  ‘This is a setback,’ Owen said, ‘but it doesn’t mean we should abandon the boycott.’

  ‘Owen, you really think the English care about your so-called “boycott”? They’ll simply send in the army and that’ll be the end of that.’

  ‘Perhaps. We’ll see.’

  Thomas abruptly rose from the table and reached for his coat and knapsack.

  ‘Are you going out?’ Síomha asked.

  ‘Yeah, I thought I’d go into Ballinrobe for a drink.’

  The others eyed each other, surprised at the suddenness of his decision.

  Thomas paused by the door. When he spoke his tone had softened and his shoulders slumped. ‘Listen, I’m not trying to dishearten you…I think I’m just upset at seeing that girl buried today. Died for nothing, she did. Anyway, look, I’ll say goodnight.’

  He turned and exited into the cold evening air.

  Thomas rode hard in the fading light, wanting to get as far as possible from the cottage before the blanket of night was pulled over his head. But he knew, deep down, that his incessant prodding of the horse was motivated also by anger, as much at himself as the priest’s saintly championing of peace.

  In his frustration, he’d shown too much of his hand. He couldn’t risk them suspecting his true intentions. Sooner or later the truth would out. It certainly would after he’d killed Boycott, but by then it wouldn’t matter as he’d either be dead or gone. He found it strange but comforting that neither prospect troubled him much.

  Sometime soon he would have to get back to Bull Walsh’s safe house, where he’d lain low in the aftermath of Mountmorres’s murder; he had to contact Doherty and find out what exactly was going on. He’d been back here for more than two weeks and there hadn’t been a word.

  He’d used that time to plan Boycott’s assassination, considering every possible approach: while the land agent was working in the fields; or by concealing himself in the dense woodland; disguising himself as a
constable, even the possibility of firing from a boat on Lough Mask, but each presented its own problems, particularly of escape.

  And every plan he conceived required the help of at least two men. He needed Doherty and Bull Walsh and perhaps even another. But Doherty had been as uncommunicative as a dead man these past days. His frustration was rising, a hint of it surfacing in the cottage that evening. And the odds were that soon the army would build a bulwark of men and guns around Boycott, impenetrable to any plan.

  He approached Ballinrobe and slowed to a trot. He had a contact here, a butcher, who might be able to get word to Doherty about the changing situation.

  Thomas looked across the fields at the lights flickering in the windows of the British cavalry barracks. Its presence on Irish soil repulsed him, stirred the violent soup of his soul. He had but one thing in common with the men within its walls. He was a soldier. But unlike them, Thomas Joyce knew he fought for the army of the just. And only English blood could balance the scales.

  The morning of Saturday, 23 October dawned chilly but bright with a stiff breeze cutting in from the Atlantic, swirling the fallen leaves along the Mall on Westport’s riverside. In a laneway just off the Mall, where thirty years beforehand Owen and Thomas Joyce had sought temporary refuge, Bernard Becker located the services of Mr Conn Costello, a man with an uncovered carriage who was more than willing to drive him the thirty miles of meandering road south to Ballinrobe.

  The going was slow and cold, even with his heavy ulster coat and cape pulled tightly around him. The road was almost deserted and they met but a handful of men or women driving or riding a donkey laden with panniers of turf, which they offered him for sale for fivepence. He declined, of course, but did notice the scantiness of their clothing and wondered at the hardiness of these people to endure such cold while they toiled for pennies, making him a trifle abashed at his own discomfort. They veered south and crossed what seemed like an interminable peat bog where the wind was particularly biting. Costello informed him that the snow-capped hills rising to the west were the Partry Mountains, which hugged the western shore of Lough Mask, the mention of which heartened him, as surely they were drawing near his destination. His spirits were dampened again when he learned they still had ten miles to go. Yet his companionable driver persisted happily with his chatter, at times informative and at others amusing, indicating points of interest along the way, such as monuments of tall, upright stones that pre-dated all known history, or recounting stories of battles and legends from aeons past. He found some light relief when Costello pointed to an islet in Lough Carra called Pleasure Island, where an ancient prince had reputedly taken countless virgins for ‘deflowering’, accentuating this word with a gentle, conspiratorial ‘man-of-the-world’ nudge into Becker’s ribs. Ever since that time, Costello said, the island had been incredibly fertile and the trees there always grew tall and erect, never going limp. Costello had concluded this tale with a peal of laughter, which Becker shared.

  By the time they reached Ballinrobe, the wind had faded and the temperature had risen to an unseasonable warmth, to the extent that Becker was forced to shed his overcoat. Here he bade farewell to Costello, who made some excuse about having to return to Westport, and he was unable to find a driver to carry him the remainder of the way. After numerous enquiries, he realised the problem lay in his revealing his destination, as nobody would have anything to do with Boycott. Finally he succeeded in hiring a car by claiming he was an English writer of travel books.

  Late in the afternoon he drew near to the Lough Mask Estate, the source of all the recent fuss among the readership of the London Times. The heat was now oppressive, he found, for he still wore several layers of clothing. He came to a tall, iron gate that marked the entrance, behind which stood three constables, each with a hand resting on a holstered weapon, ready to respond with deadly force should he prove to be a covert assassin of some kind. He informed them of his name and intent, but they were steadfast in their refusal to admit him and told him to ‘be on his way’ in no uncertain terms. He wasn’t put off quite so easily. He saluted them cordially and remounted his car, trotting off until a bend in the track put him beyond sight of Boycott’s guardians.

  As he rounded the corner he came upon a sight that he considered unparalleled. He sat on his car and observed for some time in astonishment, then withdrew his notebook and began to write furiously:

  Beyond a turn in the road was a flock of sheep, in front of which stood a shepherdess herding them back, while a shepherd was driving them through a gate into an adjacent field. Despite the work she was engaged upon, it was quite evident, from her voice and manner, that the shepherdess was of the educated class, and the shepherd carried himself with the true military air. Both were obviously amateurs at sheep driving, for shepherd and shepherdess were only doing what a good collie would achieve alone and unaided. Behind the shepherd were two tall constables with carbines loaded who shadowed him everywhere at a distance of a few yards. All his backings and fillings, turnings and doublings, were followed by the armed policemen. This combination of the most proverbially peaceful of pursuits with carbines and buckshot was irresistibly striking, and the effect of the picture was not diminished by the remarks of Mr. and Mrs. Boycott, for the shepherd and shepherdess were no other than these.

  He beckoned to Boycott, prompting the constables to whirl about at the strange voice and level their carbines at him. For a moment Becker feared his assignment – and his existence – might come to a premature end, but Boycott stayed their hand and inquired who he was. His bona fides having been established, the land agent admitted him to the field with enthusiasm and introduced him to his ‘fellow workers’: his wife, Mrs Annie Boycott, a fine-looking woman of early middle age, his pretty niece and young nephew, and his friend Mr Weekes. Mrs Boycott, while courteous, seemed particularly worn and unwilling to engage in conversation, so resumed her toil.

  Becker had seen many sights as a press correspondent but never one to match that of members of the English upper class toiling like common labourers. It was simply an unthinkable state of affairs. He could already imagine the popping eyes of the gentry back in England as they perused his account.

  He explained that he’d been dispatched to recount the depredations that had brought the land agent to such a cruel nadir and assured him that it was very much in his interests to relate the ‘human tragedy’ of his story. Boycott had only been too eager.

  ‘Well, back in August, some local rabble stirred up my workers and forced them to strike,’ he explained as they walked about the fields, constables in tow, Becker scribbling notes as Boycott strode along, occasionally striking the ground with his cane to emphasise a point. ‘One of these new godless communist ideologies at work, I suspect. However, I was prepared to hear their grievances and make generous concessions, after which they willingly returned. But when several tenants defaulted on their rent, the entire tenantry rebelled, no doubt incited by the anarchists in the Land League and their local agitator, Father O’Malley. I was shocked! Hell and confound it, man, until then my tenantry and I were going along nicely. Since I’ve been at Lough Mask I’ve invested vast amounts of money on improving the estate and the general neighbourhood. It is as though one had a friend for many years and he suddenly slapped you across the face.’

  Boycott stopped near to Lough Mask’s shore and stared across the water, shaking his head in apparent sad reflection.

  As they returned towards the cornfield he expressed the view that the Land League wished to ‘hunt him out of the country’. Becker learned that they were reduced to one domestic servant as everyone else had been forced to abandon him, to a man or woman expressing sorrow and in some cases weeping openly at having to part from his employ. And no tradespeople for ten miles around would deal with him. He could not sell his herd or even the corn that had been cut, and he had no means of winnowing the corn anyway. He had five hundred pounds worth of crops still in the ground, and if they were not harvested within
the next month they would rot and he would be ruined.

  Becker thought Boycott a man with a short fuse and curt manner. He found several of his questions cut off before he could finish them, as though Boycott wasn’t listening. But he recognised that the land agent’s position was intolerable and the strain of this past month must have been enormous, so surely this accounted for his manner. He also formed an impression of Boycott as a resolute and quite valiant individual, instilled with a rigid self-discipline.

  As they drew once more within sight of Mrs Boycott and the others labouring under the autumnal sun, their faces streaked with perspiration and soil, their hair awry, their clothing tarnished with every class of dirt, he could not suppress a sense of outrage at the predicament of a fellow Englishman. Yet he felt a surge of pride at seeing the Boycotts at their toil while armed policemen stalked along in their shadow. Boycott’s first-hand telling of events had made him realise he would need little hyperbole to sculpt a stirring tale for the readers of The Daily News. Reporting the Boycotts’ predicament would, in fact, be his patriotic duty.

  Becker said his goodbyes, promising to return and to bring Boycott’s plight to a wider audience, at which point the agent nodded, grunted and turned abruptly away.